Swansong For A Raven
by Ms. Numbers
Summary: Set in the modern era, this is the tale of a black metal band...a young singer, her Angel of Music, and the disturbed lead singer...and their quest to become the best.
1. Sin Deep, My Sacred Angel

_The following is an attempt at a modern setting, so it's a new and exciting area for me; I decided to make it centered around a song called "Nymphetamine (Fix)" by Cradle of Filth, a black metal group. All lyrics in this chapter are from "Nymphetamine (Fix)" and "The Rape and Ruin of Angels (Hosannas in Extremis)." _

Special thanks goes to my beta and friend, Erik, for helping me put this together and introducing me to CoF.

Please feel free to provide any constructive criticism, if needed. Enjoy!

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The angel's voice filled the auditorium, placed in perfect contrast with the screams of the electric guitar. Closing her blue eyes as she sang through the lyrics for what seemed like the millionth time, allowing herself to be swept away in the melodies swirling around her.

_"Bared on your tomb, I am a prayer for your loneliness. And would you ever soon come above unto me?"_

She did not hear the ocean's roar of voices screaming as she sang.

_"For once upon a time, from the binds of your lowliness, I could always find the right slot for your sacred key."_

She only heard the music.

Throwing her head back slightly as she went through the lyrics, her long hair swung along with the song, brushing freely at the mid of her back. The gentle motion of golden strands held the gaze of another while she formed the words upon rosy colored lips; even after she had finished singing part of the lyrics and waited for her partner to come in, she swayed to the music, unable to resist the pull it had upon her.

A deep, gravely voice took over. A devil's voice.

_"Six feet deep is the incision in my heart, that barless prison,"_ it sang as the flaxen sway kept the attention of the singer. _"Discolours all with tunnel vision. Sunsetter. Nymphetamine."_

The song continued, passing back and forth between the angel's voice and the devil's voice…she knew this song perfectly, yet at the end she always had cold chills run down her back at the last words in the song:

_"My nymphetamine girl."_

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Safely back in her dressing room, Christine silently brushed her hair slowly and methodically…thinking back to the show, she chastised herself on how she had performed that evening. _You know the songs by heart, you dumb bitch. There's no reason that you should've blundered the lyrics after "Nymphetamine!"_

Yet, there was a reason. She knew that, but as with everything about her life, she attempted to ignore it.

Putting the brush down, she studied herself in the over-sized mirror.

Long golden blond hair that hung with a slight curl mid-way down her back. Eyes as blue as a summer's sky, framed by perfectly shaped brows. Rosy colored lips that formed a tiny pout of a mouth.

What was it about herself that attracted men to her? She did not view herself as beautiful, only average. Growing angry at the question, she quickly stood and marched over to her closet; angrily yanking a coat of its hanger, she stormed out of the room, a slight scent of her perfume hanging in the air.

One of her band-mates began to speak to her in the hallway, but she cut him off quickly. "Fuck off, all of you!" she yelled, slamming the door behind her before locking it and heading off, leaving the others to glance to one another quizzically.

From somewhere deep in the room, the sweet smell was deeply inhaled and released back as a displeased snort. Absently, two fingers picked up the brush from the vanity and raised it up, once again inhaling the French scent. A set of black eyes raised up to meet their reflection in the mirror.

_"Christine. You left. Again. Your sin is deep, my sacred angel."_

Twirling the brush in between fingers, a thought began to wind as eyes lowered down to the tiny flowered pattern carved upon the handle.

Lips twisted in disgust.

As the presence left the girl's room, the brush was left quivering in its place of impalement in the center of the now shattered mirror.

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_"Cold was my soul, untold was the pain I faced when you left me - a rose in the rain. So I swore to the razor that never, enchained would your dark nails of faith be pushed through my veins again."_

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After wandering the dark streets for close to an hour, Christine decided to head back to her dressing room to collect a few things and head to her apartment.

Pushing the slightly ajar door open, she didn't notice anything out of the ordinary, yet she swore that she had locked it. She tossed her coat onto a recliner and walked over to her vanity. Shaking her head and routinely flipping her hair over her right shoulder, she quickly gathered a few belongings and dumped them into a bag.

Looking up to check her hair, Christine saw the brush, now stilled, radiating from the center of the spider web pattern of broken, reflective glass.

As she stared at the shattered mirror in shock, her eyes caught a glimpse of something written in black on the now ruined surface:

_"Remember with pride what thou art, lest we forget in awe of our terrible past…"_


	2. Absinthe With Faust

_Special thanks and much love to my fabulous beta, Erik! Lyrics in this chapter are from Nightwish's "Swanheart" and "Sleeping Sun," along with Cradle of Filth's "The Black Goddess Rises."_

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Christine wrapped her coat tightly around her shoulder, as she walked to the auditorium in the brisk winter air. Her long hair fluttered in the breezes, sneaking out from the wool hat pulled low on her forehead. The longer she walked, it seemed, the colder the weather became. She desired to practice her vocals during her hike to the hall, but in this air she dared not.

The Angel would be displeased with her.

Her stride was finally broken by the change of a light at the intersection of Clay and Royal; forced to stop until the traffic halted, she began to hum a partial tune, forming the words with icy lips, as she waited.

_"In my world love is for poets, never the famous balcony scene...just a dying faith on a heaven's gate..."_

Looking around as the tune came into fruition, she noticed a lone snowflake falling from the winter skies; it landed ever so gently on her outstretched glove. Almost as fast as the landing, it melted into nothingness.

She raised her head ever so slightly and saw the lit figure beckoning the pedestrians across, then continued her trek to work.

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A soft, melodic tune floated through the air...somewhere, a violin sang as only angels can when the bow was caressed across its strings in a sweet, airy kiss.

The musician, with the violin held by long, deft fingers, waited for her arrival.

She was late. Again.

As time passed, a tune began to weave itself into the presence's mind and it softly sang: _"For my dreams I hold my life...For wishes I behold my night...The truth at the end of time, losing faith makes a crime..."_

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Glancing down at her watch, Christine saw that it was twenty past three...and she was late. _Damn it all!_ She was supposed to be at the auditorium right at three for her vocal lesson. He was furious when she'd come in late. Tonight was her night. It was nearly time for the performance where the producers from the highly prestigious music label, Malabranca, would decide whether or not to take on the group. All of them - Steve, Tony, Phil, Nico, and even Erik - were counting on her to achieve this feat, this dream that they all had for so long.

The Angel even told her that she had to be in top form for this audition of sorts. Too much was at stake if she did not sing to the heavens.

_"Christine, this is your chance to be recognized for your talents...your gift of voice is precious and should be heard by the entire world. You must sing as you've never done before."_

She was to sing a variety of songs, some of the band's best pieces that would not only show off her angelic voice but the playing of the other members, as well.

Finally arriving at the Riverwood Auditorium, Christine dashed in through the back door and hurried up to her dressing room. As she dashed through the building for the stairwell, a pair of eyes caught sight of her tiny figure hurrying along the well-worn paths on the floor.

The deep, gravely voice spoke. "My, my, Christine. Are we late for somethin'?"

She stopped when she heard the voice. Slowly turning to face the lounging figure, she gritted her teeth and spoke calmly. "Yes, Erik, I am late for 'somethin',' if that's any of your concern."

"Ooo...ain't we all defensive today!" The lean form pushed himself away from the wall and lit up a Lucky Strike, blowing blue circles of smoke towards the singer. "Tell me, young Chris. S'it a man ya waitin' for? If so, I can tell ya, he ain't gonna wait for too long. Ya ain't the only fish in the sea." With that last statement, a dark eye closed in a wink.

Setting her jaw and vowing not to jump to her own defense, Christine calmly replied: "Erik. I need to go prepare for tonight's show. I do not have time for you or your bullshit."

Raising his hands - cig firmly held between two fingers - and shaking them a bit, he twisted his face into one of mock fear. "Lookit the big gurl playin' tough! D'ya really think I care aboutcha and the vocal ex'rcise crap ya do?"

Christine took a few steps towards the sneering man and leaned in ever so close to his face. "Erik. I'm going to say this once and I want you to listen carefully."

"I'm listenin', chickadee," he replied, raising an eyebrow at her forwardness.

Staring into his dark eyes, she quietly chastised him. "This is our big chance at a record deal. I will _not_ have it ruined by some punk asshole who thinks he's God's gift to music and women. Is that clear, _Monsieur_ Erik?"

"Oh, goin' all Frenchy on me now, eh?" He smirked. "No worries, luv. I ain't gonna do nothin' to ya. Just messin', that's all."

Christine inhaled slowly, then released it just the same. "We are in a group together, for god's sake...why can you not do anything other than screw with my head?"

A slow smile crept up the corners of his mouth and his eyes held a sparkle. "Why, darlin'...I like screwin'...ya..."

Just as soon as the words had left his crooked lips, Christine's eyes widened in disgust. "How dare you even think such a thing, you freak! How can you possibly even entertain such an idea when you look like _that_!"

Erik stared at Christine in disbelief. He had never heard her say anything of _that_ nature before. Instinctively, he reached up and touched the mask that covered his face; flesh-colored, it was practically invisible to the naked eye...having that virtual fortress protecting his one vulnerability, Erik allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security. He had believed, truly and utterly believed, that Christine would be the last person to take his deformity and shove it back into what remained of his face.

_Oh, how I craved for you...you so pure and other-worldly with your scent of Winter...am I to bleed myself dry to see your delight?_

He tipped his head down, inadvertently causing his dark hair to fall over half of his face and a furious glaze turned his eyes as cool as onyx. He took several slow breaths as he tried to control his anger. That _seething_ hatred that bubbled up in his chest. Faster than a blink of the eye, a hand shot out and grabbed the tiny alabaster neck, slowly squeezing...

With a low growl, he yanked her closer to the very thing she had just cursed, the pressure began to mount and fear flickered in her eyes. "I have killed people for less, you _bitch_," he spat, while Christine writhed in his strong grasp.

"Erik!" A voice shattered the silence. "Let her go. **_Now!_**"

Drawing a breath in deeply, Erik slowly complied with the command. After releasing the girl, he watched as she just stood there, then ran up to her dressing room as fast as she could to get away from him. His arm fell to his side, softly and silently, while his eyes saw nothing.

Almost as fast as it happened, Erik slid down the wall behind him, whimpering like a wounded animal. He curled up into a ball, placing his head down on his arms and allowed his hair to act as a shield. Sitting down beside the crumpled man, Aref placed an arm around Erik's shoulders and pulled him close, saying nothing.


	3. The Black Goddess Rises

_A/N: The lyrics in this chapter are from Mozart's "Lacrymosa" and Cradle of Filth's "Haunted Shores." Thanks to Erik, my wonderful beta._

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_Lacrymosa dies illa..._

The poignant music floated around the room, caressing anything in its way with the soft, tender notes. As the music swelled, Erik closed his eyes and lost himself in the graceful tune.

_Qua resurget ex favilla judicandus homo reus..._

His back faced the door to his music room, unaware of the person standing in the door listening and watching. Aref crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway, not saying a word; he knew Erik needed him but would never admit to that fact.

_Huic ergo parce Deus..._

As the music went on, Aref watched the muscles in the lean man's back move along with the playing...with each swell in the piano, the harder the playing became. A relatively simple piece for someone of Erik's talent, it was causing him considerable effort just to play it. Erik was visibly struggling through the song. Aref had only seen this happen one other time...a time Erik buried in the darkness, never to speak of it again.

_Pie Jesu Domine..._

Erik knew Aref stood there watching him. He always knew, even if he acted as though he did not. He supposed that the middle-aged man of Arab descent would eventually figure this out, if he hadn't already. Aref had always been there for him; even when they were young men at the university, Aref took Erik under his wing to protect him from those who sought to hurt him, physically and emotionally.

_Dona eis requiem! Amen!_

Aref still said nothing, but quietly put his hands together in a muted applause. Whirling around to face him, Erik snarled, "Why are _you_ here?" With a quiet regard, Aref noticed that the musician was not wearing his mask. Instead, it was resting on the piano, heavy and lifeless.

"Have you come to throw _this_," Erik pointed an angry finger at his face, "back at me! Don't you people fucking realize I know I'm deformed!"

Aref allowed him to yell, knowing that none of it was directed at him. Continuing to berate him verbally, Erik stood and crossed the room to where Aref stood. He narrowed his eyes, focusing in on his prey, fully intent on making a physical impact. Tucking a strand of dark hair behind his ear, Aref stepped from inside the doorway and into the actual room; he watched Erik move towards him, slowly and deftly. He began walking, attempting to meet Erik in the middle of the room, preparing himself for the attack he knew was to come.

Like a bull charging a matador, Erik came at Aref with everything he had. Aref knew that Erik could make a serious impact upon contact - as this had happened before - and just before Erik collided with his mid-section, Aref stepped aside and grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back. Slamming him into the wall, Aref pushed his face into the dark paint. Growling low, Erik tried to get out of the hold, but Aref held tight and kept pushing him against the wall, as if trying to make the taller man submit.

In a fierce but soft whisper, Erik growled, "Let me go, you damnable bastard."

"Not until you've calmed yourself, my friend," he replied calmly.

After a few moments had passed, Aref gradually let him go, leaving the man to flick tiny pieces of black paint off his face. Staring at his friend, Erik quickly crossed back over to the piano and picked up the mask that had been laying there for some time. With movements faster than light, the face was once again covered from the world that threatened to kill it.

_These are the shores whereto my soul  
Blood drenched and unredeemed  
Shalt seek solace in secrets told  
Through the whispers of a dream..._

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She imagined his eyes...clear, blue, with the sweetness of heaven radiating from their core. She had seen them in her mind's eye many times before, wanting to ask what they looked like. Of course, that was out of the question...he would never grant such a thing. _Why do you need to see me, Christine? I am an angel...your angel of music._ If he ever spoke in that tone, she knew better than to press the question; her curiosity would get the better of her one day, that she knew. She _couldn't_ allow that to happen.

As she sat at her vanity table awaiting his arrival, Christine thought back to the events of just a few hours before. Erik had assaulted her. _No._ He tried to fucking _kill_ her.

"Why?" She voiced aloud, even though she knew the answer.

She shouldn't have brought his deformity into it. She knew how sensitive he was about it, but she had said it anyway; had she really desired to hurt him so deeply? Even though he had said that bit about the screwing, which she thought was totally inappropriate, he did not deserve hearing that he was a freak of nature.

He did, after all, have enough confidence to do the shows without his mask. She supposed that because of the lighting and all, no one would see it clearly anyway, or perhaps they'd think it a mask. If they ever did, though...she shuddered at the thought of what might happen.

As obnoxious and self-centered as Erik was, he had feelings, too...Christine knew she had to do something, especially since they were to perform tonight. She couldn't allow their big chance to be washed away because of some idiotic argument over nothing.

Sighing, she knew what she had to do...and hoped that he would listen to her.

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The loud, boisterous voice began going up and down the scales in a repetitive manner. With every "do re mi," the noise became louder and more noticeable.

Down in his music room, Erik had been sitting in the dark, playing a soft melody on his violin, when he first began to hear the scales. Peering up at the ceiling - as if _that_ would do any good - he stood and began to pace the room, like a caged tiger. With every repetition, it grew worse and more horrid to the ears. Holding a hand up to his ear, Erik decided to find out where it was coming from.

Climbing up a ladder that led directly from his music room to the auditorium, he stepped off into the fly and looked down onto the stage. He moved around the ropes to see who was down on the stage, attempting to sing.

Her hair hung down to her shoulders in a fall of fiery-red tendrils. Willowy, yet curvy, she stood on the stage and sang the scales out to the rows of empty seats; by her body language, Erik noticed that she seemed to think that she was _good_. She sounded more like nails across a chalkboard than fine bells.

Grimacing, Erik knew something had to be done about this new...person. Was she going to be competition for Christine? He couldn't allow that to happen, no matter what had happened earlier. He began to look around for something that would spook her, perhaps; not hurt her or anything like that, just send a message that she was not welcome here.

As he began looking around, Erik glanced down at the stage again and noticed a second person approaching the red haired wonder that almost resembled a...rat. A thin man, his face was long and pointed, along with shiny black hair, coated with enough grease to solve the world's oil problems; a pencil-thin mustache across his upper lip resembled a rat's whiskers. Erik paused to listen to the ensuing conversation:

"Cheryl, darling, you're simply divine! Before you realize it, you will have that contract with Malabranca!" The rat faced man wheezed, through his pointed mouth. "I know you are soooo much better than that blonde singer they're trying to promote so heartily!"

Pausing to look at him, Cheryl lowered her arms and took his hand. "Oh, Pietro...do you really think so?"

"Oh, signora, I know so!" With a flourish, he bowed low and kissed her hand.

Up in the flies, Erik was doing his best not to gag. He had to do something about these two, just to shut them up. _This could actually be fun...tormenting the red haired wench and her rat._ As he mused over this, he found an unused sandbag from years before lying in waste, having been put aside for more modern technology. Grinning, he hoisted it upon his shoulder and walked to the end of the platform, where he began to climb up into the ropes to a high point that was closer to the two on stage.

With one arm, he pulled himself onto another platform about one hundred feet above the unsuspecting pair down below; positioning his aim just so, he let the sandbag go...

Down it fell, twisting and turning...until it flew a mere six inches to the left of Cheryl's head and slammed into the wood, making a noise similar to the firing of a canon. Cheryl let loose a scream that would deafen any unsuspecting person, but Erik was used to noise such as that.

Grabbing his ears, Pietro gasped. "My god, woman! I think you broke my eardrums!"

Whirling around to him, she left an imprint of her lean hand across his cheek and stormed off the stage in a huff. Pietro gazed up into the darkened world of the ropes and flies, as if to see what invisible force might have tried to kill the singer, then followed her offstage.

Had he stayed around for another moment, he would have heard an amused cackle coming from the darkness.


	4. Malice Through the Looking Glass

_A/N: Lyrics for this chapter are from Nightwish's "Ever Dream" and "Ocean Soul," along with Cradle of Filth's "Dusk and Her Embrace." As always, thanks to my beta and friend, Erik._

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Out on the snowy sidewalk, Cheryl regarded Pietro with a critical eye. "Why did you allow that to happen while I was practicing? You know it is important for me to do the scales."

Closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, Pietro sighed. "Signora, I had _nothing_ to do with that renegade sandbag! Believe me, I would never allow anyone to hurt you intentionally!"

Her green eyes narrowed. "Ah ha! So if it were unintentional, you would allow it!" She jabbed a finger into his bony chest. "I should have known better than to hire _you_ as my manager!"

He yelped in pain. "Ow! But signora, I never sa-"

"_You_ have said enough!" With that, she flounced off to her car, parked at the curb. Fumbling with her keys, she made a valiant attempt to unlock the door but the keys simply would not cooperate with her efforts. As she continued to fight the keys, another car pulled up behind hers, the motor purring softly.

The driver's door opened to reveal a man of average height, with a head of sandy blonde hair that was fixed just so. Pocketing his keys into the pocket of his overcoat, he hurried over to Cheryl's side.

"Allow me, signora," he said, his enunciation betraying his high, and undoubtedly expensive, education. Gently taking the molded pieces of metal from her angry fingers, he quietly opened her door.

Cooing like a dove, Cheryl gave him a large smile and even batted her eyes a few times. "Ahhh..._grazie_, signor!" Curling her fingers around the extended keys and placing them in her Gucci bag, she turned her attention fully to the handsome stranger.

"...and what is signor's name, so that I might thank my savior justly?" She asked, the corners of her red lined mouth curling upward and extending a gloved hand in his general direction.

"My name, signora," he began, as he took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to it, "is Raoul de Chetillion III."

Still standing on the snowy sidewalk, Pietro's eyes grew wide when he realized just who was kissing Cheryl's hand; he knew that an endorsement by this most influential person could, in fact, help sway the record label in her favor.

Sidling up to de Chetillion and pushing Cheryl out of the way, Pietro deftly pulled out a business card. "Monseeor de Chantilly...I think we have things to discuss."

"Please. Call me Raoul," he answered, taking Pietro's business card and studying it. "It's a family name, so I answer to that more than Monsieur de Chetillion."

Wrinkling his nose up in a smile, Pietro smiled. "Of course, Monseeor." Raoul tried not to cringe for a second time at the terrible mispronunciation, and listened as the man went on. "Whatever you'd like. It's my business to please." At that, Cheryl let out an audible snort and started mumbling something in Italian.

de Chetillion glanced over at Cheryl, then back to Pietro. "What's the matter with the signora?"

"Oh nothing...let's talk..." Pietro took the crook of his arm and led him inside the building. Glaring after the two, Cheryl stomped off behind them, muttering Italian curses the entire way.

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_Come out, come out wherever you are..._

As the haunting music played in the background, he considered his reflection in the shiny glass. Long, black hair framed his lean face; his dark eyes were outlined in matching black eyeliner. He supposed it was, more or less, a habit to make them seem whiter on stage, but he continued to do it even when not performing. If he could grow facial hair, it would be something akin to a goatee, or maybe not...he always wondered if women thought goatees to be sexy.

_So lost in your sea..._

He nimbly touched his chin with two fingers. Allowing his eyes to wander for a moment, he took in his entire reflection; for the first time in many years, he was looking at himself without the mask covering his deformity. Honestly, he could not remember the last time he actually had seen himself without it on...of course, that might have required having mirrors around his rooms, but he expressly forbade the presence of such things.

_Give in, give in for my touch..._

Lightly touching a fingertip to the mirror, he traced one of the many deep crevices that ran along his face; even though he had lived with it for all of his life, he still wondered what the ridges of flesh felt like. Sad to say, even he had a difficult time making contact with the ragged-looking plane, so he could imagine the horrors others had felt so many times before when seeing it for the first time.

_For my taste for my lust..._

Especially his mother. Aimeé.

He shuddered at the thought of her name...if every good little boy was supposed to love his mother, then he was anything but "decent."

No matter.

Even though that was years past, it still haunted him.

Bracing himself with both hands on the counter that stood below the mirror, he let his head hang down where his chin almost grazed his bare chest. He stood there for the longest while...he was shaken from his thoughts when something wet dropped lightly onto his hand. Opening his dark eyes to see what it was, another fell onto his other hand.

Looking up at his reflection in the mirror once more, he saw something wet streaking his thin cheeks...

He was crying.

Through his tears came a strangled whisper: _"Through twilight, darkness and moonrise...my scarlet tears will run...as stolen blood and whispered love...of fantasies undone."_

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An hour or so later, a soft knock came at his outer door. Blinking in rapid succession, Erik stood up from where he had been sleeping on the carpet; noticing the carpet markings on his chest and arms, he grabbed a black shirt off the nearest chair and quickly buttoned it, leaving part of it open. Looking around the room, he noticed how messy he'd become, but simply shrugged. Who would possibly care? It was not as if the person at the door was anyone he wanted to see in the first place.

Running a hand through his mussed hair, he walked past the mirror and saw he was sans mask. He began fumbling about the counter and found it half-buried; it was returned to his face with lightning speed.

Approaching the door, he noticed the knocking had subsided and almost decided to not open it; curiosity got the better of him, so he slowly twisted the knob.

Christine stood opposite him, her tiny hand raised to knock once more.

"Oh...Erik...I..." she stammered, having lost some of her nerve when he stood waiting.

_Crying for me was never worth a tear..._

He leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms against his chest. She lowered her eyes under his powerful gaze and saw the muscular frame slightly exposed. A slow blush crept up into her cheeks and she ducked her head down, trying to hide it. Chuckling, Erik reached out to her and raised her chin up with a finger.

"Now, now, Chris...ain't no reason for ya to be embarrassed and all. S'not like I'm anythin' to look at now, am I?" He just _barely_ managed to keep the caustic bitterness out of his words.

Meeting his dark eyes with hers, she studied him closely...closer than she had ever been to him besides that time his hands were tight around her throat. Now the one that touched her was soft, almost tender. She was half convinced he could hear her pounding heart through her sweater and struggled to regain her composure.

_My lonely soul is only filled with fear..._

She straightened her sweater and walked past him into the room. Moving some of the clothes and papers on the floor aside with the tip of her boot, she turned and faced him. He'd come back into the room and had softly closed the door, only to meet her once again with those expectant eyes.

"Kindly don't be puttin' ya foot on me music, if'n ya don't mind," he said softly, almost a whisper.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Christine spoke. "Erik...about earlier...I didn't mean what I said about you. I just got caught up in the anger and all, lashing out at you when I should not have. I am so very, very sorry."

Erik was genuinely surprised at her words. He had not expected her to mention the incident again, let alone apologize for what she had said. Beneath the mask, he was sure his eyebrows, or whatever was there, were close to hitting his hairline. For once he did not know what to say...did not have an answer...was totally speechless. No one had ever apologized for calling him a freak before - he simply did not know what to make of it. Absently, he fingered the black bands that encircled his wrists.

_I only wished to become something beautiful..._

"I hope there's no hard feelings between us. I know how important this record deal is to all of the guys, especially you...since you write all of our songs," she said, staring down at the floor. "With the big show tonight, I just didn't want to leave things hanging, you know?"

"Yeah," he struggled to form the word.

Her sky blue eyes rose and caught his in a gaze that seemed to last forever. Neither moved or seemingly breathed until a knock interrupted the silence. Turning his head towards the door, Erik's eyes never left hers, even when he spoke.

"...whatcha want?" He managed to croak out.

The voice through the door was that of Nico, the drummer for the group. "Hey, Erik...are we still doing the run-through of the numbers?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Well...uh, it's four-thirty. You called the rehearsal for four. Me and the guys were wondering if you and Chris were coming, that's all."

"Have the guys go through the riffs. I'll find Chris."

"Alrighty. You're the boss." Nico soon left, allowing the silence to encapsulate the two once more.

Blinking her large eyes, Christine darted to the door and quickly shut it behind her, closing off the connection that had been so open only moments before. Erik sighed, then gathered up a few pieces of music before heading out to the rehearsal.

_Through my music, through my silent devotion..._


	5. A Scarlett Witch Lit the Season

_A/N: Lyrics for this chapter are from Altered Aeon's "Dispirited Chambers," "The Resonance Of Form In Transition," and "Light Creates Shadows." As always, thanks to my beta and friend, Erik (Musique Et Amour)._

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"No, _no_," Erik yelled, as the song hit the chorus. "We've been through this before...it's gotta sound like _this_!" He strode over to where a guitar sat, waiting to be used; picking it up, his nimble musician's fingers played through the section without any problem or any effort. As he played through the stubborn notes, he failed to notice a set of sky blue eyes watching with heightened interest.

_I am a world architect...Beyond the need to analyze and dissect..._

Christine had never quite noticed before how deftly he played or small things like how one piece of hair fell over his eye before; it was as though something had overtaken whatever reserves she had about Erik and washed them away. A new found admiration of his talents shone through her eyes. She didn't think that she loved him or anything of that nature...she was still holding out for her Prince Charming to enter and sweep her away.

_I know I have to believe to see...Instead of see to believe..._

At that precise moment, the back door to the auditorium swung open and Raoul walked in, with Pietro and Cheryl at his heels in mad pursuit. He stopped short when he saw the blonde singer on stage, readying herself to sing; raising the microphone to her heart-shaped mouth, her songbird's voice rang out: _"Disillusioned I entered here...In isolation ensnared...But a mind cannot be escaped...Nor the horrors it chose to shape..."_ Almost immediately, Raoul knew he had to meet this woman...so he sat down in one of the chairs to wait.

--------------------

After ending rehearsal an hour later, Erik turned to Christine and spoke softly. "Jus' take it easy until the show eh, Chris?"

She smiled shyly at him, absently playing with a ring on her hand. She glanced down and a wave of melancholy immediately came over her. _Father's last gift to me...he'd be so proud to see me now._ She almost let herself drift into that other place when she saw her father for the last time; twisting it, she began to stare into space, until she realized Erik had gently touched her arm. Her eyes traveled from his hand to meet his own eyes in curiosity and...wonder.

"Chris?" He repeated her name, trying to snap her out of the daze she was in. "Chris? Ya alright there, chickadee?"

"What? Oh...oh, yeah. I'm fine, Erik," she said, waving away his concerns. "Just thinking about how important tonight is, that's all."

Erik didn't look as though he entirely believed her, but he let it go with a simple nod yet his hand continued to linger on her arm. Their eyes continued to hold the other's gaze and Christine did her best to read his...to see exactly what he was thinking, but no avail. His read of sadness and pain and something else she couldn't quite grasp, though she knew it was painful nonetheless.

"_Mademoiselle?_" A voice interrupted their reverie. Christine and Erik both looked down to see Raoul at the foot of the stairs, waiting to speak.

"I couldn't help but hear you practicing a moment ago," Raoul said, in a melodious tone. "I just had to meet the beautiful lady with the angel's voice."

Erik could scarcely believe that he was talking this way, especially to Christine, and that she didn't seem to mind...at all. His mask-framed gaze traveled from him to her as a smile lit up her porcelain features.

"Why, thank you, kind sir. That is truly a generous compliment you pay me," she said, as she descended the stairs to face Raoul. "I don't believe I caught your name, though."

"My apologies," he replied, taking her hand in his. "I'm Raoul de Chetillion III and it's my pleasure to meet you." With that, he placed a light kiss on her knuckles.

Blushing, her other hand flew up to her neckline and fluttered there for a moment before finally landing on her necklace, her fingers fidgeting nervously. She slowly introduced herself and Erik, then began talking about the group. "We're performing tonight and several representatives from Malabranca Records are supposed to be in the audience, hopefully wishing to sign us."

A smile played at the corners of Raoul's grey eyes. "Naturally, you'll get the contract, I'm sure."

"Oh...well, we don't know that for certain," Christine murmured, glancing up at Erik. "It's our dream to be signed, but it'll all depend on the performance tonight."

Before Erik could reply, an Italian curse rang out through the auditorium. Jumping with surprise, two sets of eyes turned to look at the back; Erik, though, knew exactly who had uttered the words. _Well, if it isn't the red haired wench and her rat...it's too bad I can't drop another sandbag right now. I might not be so generous the next time._ He leaned against the cinder block wall, waiting to see what had irritated the diva this time.

As Cheryl stomped down the aisle in her abrupt manner, Pietro scurried along after her, trying to soothe her temper. "_La divina_, please! It will be fine!" She quickly turned on him and glared, silencing him almost immediately. Continuing after down the aisle towards the threesome, Cheryl pointed a finger at Raoul, accusingly. "_Voi!_"

Incredulously, Raoul looked from her to Pietro and back again. "Me? What is wrong, _signora_?"

"You have promised me everything and nothing! You tell me you can help me win, but you talk to her! You lie!" Her beautiful features were contorted with anger, as she continued to speak. "You and him are not trying to help me win! All you want is her!"

"_Signora_, I-" Raoul tried to speak, but Cheryl cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"No more! No more lies!" Turning her attention to Christine, she stepped closer to the young woman, like a snake stalking its prey. "You think because you are blonde that you can just grab everything with no talent!"

_Every moment here feels like centuries..._

Christine took a step back from the irate woman, not sure what to say. She twisted her head around to look back at Erik, who remained on the stage, trying to get some idea of how to handle the accusations. Half in the shadows, Erik was trying to stay as much out of it as possible...yet he was intently watching the exchange. Turning back around to Cheryl, Christine stared back into the Italian's green gaze; she tilted her head, wondering where all of this was coming from and who exactly this woman was.

_These chambers reek of tragedies..._

"Just...who are you and where do you get off with these half-brained accusations?" She asked, coolly, never giving away how unsettled she was.

"_Ah, ah, ah_! Half-brained, eh?" Cheryl glowered at the calm woman. "You know exactly who I am! These things I say are true! You get all of this," she gestured to the auditorium and the stage, "just because you sleep with him!" Her dancing fingers finally pointed at Raoul.

_The shadows they come alive..._

Christine's mouth dropped open. "I just met him, for god's sake!"

"Oh, no, I know better! I know when a woman has used herself to get some place!" She paused dramatically, "...and you have slept with him!" Again, she pointed at Raoul.

_Promising death to arrive..._

"You, _signora_," Christine nearly spat the word, "are nothing but a bitch."

At that moment, Erik's breath caught at Christine's words; he straightened up, waiting for Cheryl's coming reaction.

_But my sanity left here long ago..._

Her voice trembled with anger. "I...am NOT a bitch! You...you...whore!" With that, she raised her manicured hand and hit Christine's cheek with a resounding _slap_! After leaving her mark on the young singer's face, she turned and began to flounce out.

_And I'm determined to follow..._

Before Erik, Raoul, or Pietro knew what was happening, Christine took off like a shot after Cheryl, tackling her half-way up the aisle. Even though the red-haired woman was much taller than Christine, it didn't phase the petite woman at all; she easily took Cheryl down to the floor with a running tackle. Hair flying...nails gouging...shrieks...

_A new day is dawning, my world is prepared..._

Raoul and Pietro raced to the two wrestling women, trying to break them apart...only to be kicked and shoved away by the fighters. Erik was behind them, watching with a mixture of amusement and concern for Christine. Finally, Erik reached into the fight and pulled Christine off Cheryl with little effort at all, while Raoul and Pietro stood to the side nursing their wounds.

Christine resisted being pulled off, but gradually calmed down when he whispered something in her ear. Leaving his hands firmly on her arms as if to say that he was not leaving, Erik shot a deadly look at Cheryl; for Christine's sake, he could not afford to let his temper lose on the woman.

_Upon the dispirited mindset a war is declared..._

Not yet.

Grasping her elbow, Pietro helped Cheryl up off the floor and gain her footing; straightening her jacket and attempting to push her disheveled hair out of her eyes, she leaned on Pietro for support as they limped out of the auditorium together. While they were retreating, Raoul hurried over to Christine, who was still in Erik's long fingered grasp.

"My god, Christine," he said, making an attempt to take her hand. "Are you alright?"

Without letting him have that connection, Christine answered with a note of coolness in her voice. "Yes, _Monsieur_ de Chetillion, I am fine. For now, at least." His attention obviously rebuffed, Raoul bid them _adieu_ and quickly left, with a promise of return for that evening's performance.

With that, she allowed her eyes to take a slight glance up at Erik, who was oblivious to the tiniest bit of attention. For the first time, Christine found herself wishing that his hands would stay there indefinitely.

_Behind the thoughts lies all answers...  
Beyond what carnal eyes allows you to see...  
Behold, awake and see all others..._


	6. A Crescendo of Passion Bleeding

_A/N: __Apologies to my great readers for this chapter taking so long to post...my real life has gotten extremely busy and it's almost impossible to squeeze any writing in nowadays. Thanks for your patience:-)_

_Lyrics for this chapter are taken from Cradle of Filths AOf Mist and Midnight Skies and Absences AEverlasting Moment._

_As always, special thanks goes to my incredibly wonderful beta and dear friend, Erik (Musique Et Amour)._

--------------------

The promise of a contract was something that attracted young talent by the hundreds, so it was not a surprise to see the auditorium filling up two hours before the allotted show time. Malabranca Records was renowned for finding new talent in all places...even in dark corners where other record companies and talent agents failed to look.

The box set aside for the company's personal use tonight was undergoing last minute cleaning - dusting, sweeping, and just trying to make a good impression on the signing agents.

Antoinette Giry had worked for the management of the theatre for some time, supervising the cleaning staff; though there was a large turnover of the actual workers, Giry stayed on. As for why she did, she loved the freedom the job allowed her. Granted, cleaning was not an easy job, nor was it something one should be entirely proud of...yet, when she had finished supervising her girls' work, she could not help but feel a tiny surge of pride when compliments were bestowed upon her for the cleanliness of the area in question.

_Renounce the guilt, ignite the flame..._

Today, though, her help had virtually deserted her. Down on her hands and knees, she was attempting to scrub stubborn spots off the concrete floor, angrily jabbing at them with a brush. _Damn those lazy girls! Especially that Sarah__...she knew this was an important job! I'll not show them, her included, any kindness, if they return_.

Across the room working on the side windows, Giry's teenage daughter, Meg, was gently wiping down the glass with a soft rag. In her own world, she was humming a nonsensical tune as she cleaned.

_Cast the fetid virgin back from where she came..._

Giry sat back on her heels, watching her daughter clean the same place again and again.

"Meg!"

Not hearing her mother call her, Meg continued to daydream and hum to herself.

Realizing that Meg was not going to hear her, Giry stood and walked over to her curly haired daughter; placing a hand on Megs slight shoulder, Giry said her name again.

"Oh!" Meg cried out, totally surprised at her mother's voice. "You scared me, Mother!"

"You didn't hear me when I called you from across the room, Margaret," her mother said sternly, placing her hands on her hips. "Please pay attention to what you're doing and we'd finish a lot sooner."

"But I'm cleaning the windows like you said to!" Meg protested, her large eyes wide. "Isn't that what you wanted me to do?"

_Drink deep of the promise in my eyes..._

Giry sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Yes, that's what I told you to do, but you've been cleaning the same place for the last twenty minutes. That spot is quite clean by now, I'm sure."

Meg turned and looked at the area, then began twisting the rag in her tiny hands. "Oh, Mother...I'm sorry. I guess I was thinking too much again."

Giry couldn't fault her that...she was, after all, the age when most young women her age were either in college or readying themselves for marriage or even establishing a career. Yet, she knew young Meg would not be like most girls...this she had known for some time now. She studied Meg's large brown eyes and reached out, absently fingering a long brunette curl. How she loved her daughter more than anything else in the world! She knew, beyond a doubt, that Meg was the primary reason she kept her job as the head of the cleaning staff at the Riverwood Auditorium...with her hours, she could spend time with Meg or be there for her when she needed.

_Of mist and midnight skies..._

Truthfully, Meg did not mind helping her mother clean; she rather enjoyed the job and the few dollars she earned. In her room at the tiny duplex, Meg was saving all of her dollars in a special place so that she might have enough someday to purchase those pointe shoes that she had dreamed of for years.

_I drown in fathomless dreams..._

This dream that would forever go unfulfilled saddened Giry terribly; she knew that Meg needed training from some of the top instructors in the city, if her dream of professional dance would ever have any chance of coming true. Except for one little problem...dance lessons were simply not in the tight budget.

Sighing, Giry put these thoughts from her mind and once again began to scrub at the invisible spots on the floor.

_For now we congregate where once my angel sang..._

--------------------

Christine made a hasty retreat to her dressing room, once the altercation with Cheryl had ended. She knew that by letting his hands rest upon her for those moments, she had given him false hope...yes, he was good to her at points, but the fact still remained that they worked together and nothing good ever came of a relationship between co-workers.

She sat down at her vanity and considered the moments past. How she longed for his touch to never waver...yet, all things must end.

Some things must never begin.

--------------------

_"Christine..."_

The voice seemed to come out of nowhere, but Christine knew who it belonged to...as it was familiar to her. Her face lit up with a radiant smile and her hands patted her hair, as if to assure herself that the curls were perfect.

"Angel! You've come!" She looked all around the room, as if by doing so she could find the source of the words.

_"Tonight is your night to shine, my angel...do not disappoint me."_

"I will sing for you and only you..."

---------------------

_Take away my pain..._

The blade glinted in the dim light. Carefully, the sharpened silver raked ever so gently across the pale skin beneath it; an imprint of the path was left in its wake.

Not deep enough.

_This is not your struggle..._

Again, the metal danced across the skin, attempting to leave a memory forever emblazoned and forever seen. A red welt had begun to swell up behind the fleeting blade.

_All your efforts in vain..._

Not deep enough.

As the old saying goes, the third time's the charm...and when the blade went across the swollen, reddened skin again, the path was marked. A deep crimson liquid began to appear at the points of contact...still, it was not enough.

_I've already lost this battle..._

A fourth time. On and on and on. Lessen the pain. Forget the present. Purge the hurt from the soul.

No sound was heard.

Not until the blade clattered to the floor.

_On this everlasting moment I curse the day I was born..._


	7. Filthy Little Secret

_A/N: Lyrics for this chapter are from Cradle of Filth's "The Forest Whispers My Name," "The Rape and Ruin of Angels (Hosannas in Extremis)" and Evanescence's "Away From Me." Apologies for this being such a short chapter...the next shall be much longer!  
_

_As always, much thanks goes to my incredible beta and friend, Erik (Musique Et Amour)._

--------------------

"Christine...?"

Stirring from the trance, Christine looked around her tiny dressing room. Completely dark except for the light of a single candle, the room was bathed in an eerie orange glow; she slowly stood and walked over to the source of light, not knowing what to think.

_Black candles dance to an overture..._

She could not remember lighting it, but then she really could not remember anything past entering the room.

"Christine...are you in there?"

She glanced at the door, not entirely out of her twilight. Again, she looked down at the candle and saw a single rose sitting beside it.

_But I am drawn past their flickering lure... _

A yellow rose. Her favorite.

Brushing the hair out of her face, Christine picked up the rose and inhaled its sweet perfume; the light scent of memories and lost dreams came flooding back to her, as if they had happened the days prior. Almost by instinct, her fingers began to play with the necklace that encircled her alabaster throat.

_Remember with pride what thou art, lest we forget in awe of our terrible past..._

How could she forget? That was one thing, she was certain, that would never leave her, no matter what she did or where she went...it would chase her forever.

"I don't think she's in there, Tony...she would've answered by now," a voice said outside the door. "I guess we should try calling her cell."

_I hold my breath as this life starts to take its toll..._

"She hardly ever has it with her, man," a second voice replied. "This just ain't like her."

Christine walked to the door and opened it, only to see Tony and Steve standing there, with worried looks furrowing their brows. Naturally, their gazes traveled past the confused singer to the room, and the sole light source - the candle on the table. There was something about it that had Tony brushing past Christine, and walking over to the candle to bend down and get a better look. The candle was not like anything he had ever seen before. Made of black wax, it had a seal of some sort, a red oval emblem, attached to one side, bearing the letters "AoM" in black. He held it up at eye level and studied it closely, wondering what AoM could possibly mean.

_I hide behind a smile as this perfect plan unfolds..._

"Christine, what is this?"

Her eyes shimmered with tears. "I...I...don't know."

Steve appeared at her side. "Are you okay, Chris?"

_But oh, God, I feel I've been lied to..._

Her face crumbled and tears began flowing down her cheeks; Steve and Tony exchanged worried looks, as she sobbed on Steve's shoulder.

"Chris...hey, sweetheart...hey," Steve pulled some tissues out of his pocket and wiped her tears away. "What's wrong?" She simply looked at the rose clutched in her hand, as if it were the answer.

_Lost all faith in the things I have achieved..._

Not understanding what she meant, Tony looked skeptically at her. "The rose made you upset...?" Over her head, he made a face at Steve, obviously not believing what he had just said.

_Lost in a dying world I reach for something more..._

Pulling away from Steve, Christine walked to the other side of the room. "I don't expect you to understand, Tony. I know you think I'm crazy," she paused, a note of exhaustion creeping into her voice. "I'm not blind, you know." At her vanity table, she picked up a clip and wound her hair atop her head, fastening it with precision. "And as far as the show is concerned, you can tell Erik and the others that I'm not singing."

_I have grown so weary of this lie I live..._

------------------

A knock sounded at Erik's door, awakening him from his spot on the floor; realizing that someone was there, he pulled his sleeves down to hide the red marks on his arm. He reached up and felt of his face, as if to reassure himself that the mask was still in place.

He opened the door, only to see Steve and Tony standing there, distress painted all over their faces. Erik's dark eyes took this in, looking back and forth from one to the other.

"What's wrong?" Almost immediately, he knew what they were going to say, even before the words had left his mouth.

"It's Chris, Erik," Steve replied, "...she's...she's..." He stopped abruptly, not able to form the words.

His eyes flickered. "She's what? She hurt? What?"

Tony sighed. "She's not doing the show. Said she wasn't going to sing."

Trying to control his surprise, Erik coolly regarded them. "She's not gonna sing." He crossed his arms, leaning against the door, waiting to hear the answer.

"No, Erik...she seemed totally adamant against it."

Tony and Steve watched as his eyes closed and strong jaw set in place; they knew what was coming next...they had seen it only once before and even then, it would make the strongest man cower. Erik turned and walked back into the room, a hand running through his hair in frustration.

"Just...just..." He tried to speak, to control his anger. "Get the guys t'gether and go...go practice somethin'. I'll go take care of the probl'm." He closed the door without waiting for their reply.


End file.
